The (re)inventing of history and the blurring of the line between fact and fiction is nothing new, even in the world of archaeology. Witness Arthur Evans's reconstructions at Knossos, which prompted essayist Logan Pearsall Smith to write to art critic Bernhard Berenson in 1926:
'Evans is repainting and reconstructing Knosós in a gaudy style of bad taste that gives it something of the look of his hideous house at Boar's Hill'; or the replica Thracian tomb at Kazanlâk in Bulgaria's Valley of the Roses.
The step from here to the Holy Land Experience in Orlando (of which more later), and thence to Disneyland, is not such a large one. It is not surprising that the tourism industry has seen the products of archaeology as valuable components of the marketing mix - just look at any holiday brochure for Greece or Turkey.
There is a more sinister side. Governments have seen potential in the symbolism of archaeological finds to argue a case for, or to act against, perceived threats to nationalism or national identity: think of King Otto of Greece's glorification of a perfect Athens, Hitler's crude attempts to prove the Germanic origins of Poland, or the destruction of sacred sites at Bamiyan, Afghanistan.
Marketing Heritage suggests a rather slow awakening to this 'global phenomenon… the way in which archaeology and heritage are becoming commodities in the marketplace'. Ask it quietly for fear of waking the sleeping, but wasn't that what the Grand Tour was all about - or those American sojourns in Europe that feature in the novels of Henry James and Edith Wharton?
In a series of essays, 19, mostly American, academics cover the waterfront - from an analysis of Unesco conventions to a study of attempts to give colonial Williamsburg a more realistic image by introducing the concept of dirt.
In such a large collection of essays, there is inevitably something of the curate's egg about this book. Some feel dated: a review of the shops at Avebury and Stonehenge, based partly on a visit to the latter in 1994, and an assessment of the history of the Parthenon marbles that fails to refer to Neil MacGregor's case for the world museum.
Some are wonderfully quirky: Erin Addison's work on access to Islamic heritage in Jordan has an important point to make (Islamic heritage appears to be 'deliberately obscured' from tourists), but it reaches its conclusions in part by a meticulous assessment of road signs, which is worthy of the most dedicated anorak.
Sweeping the world for its sources, Marketing Heritage contains some rich finds. It was André Malraux, that doyen of French culture in postwar France, who was the first systematic large-scale looter of Angkor Wat, taking almost a ton of stones from the temple in 1924. In the 19th century, it was possible to hire hammers in Salisbury to chip pieces off Stonehenge.
And there's the Holy Land Experience in Florida, 'an alternative to foreign travel' for 'those many Americans who find the distance, cost or potential danger of a visit to the Holy Land prohibitive, and increasingly dangerous'.
Because the distance and cost were prohibitive, I made a virtual visit to the Holy Land Experience website. It's a place with 'a singular purpose… to provide answers to life's most important questions: "Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going? What is life really all about?"' If only the real archaeology could guarantee to do the same.
According to Yorke Rowan, '[The Holy Land Experience] offers an
example of what elsewhere Richard Prentice has described as "constructed authenticity"', but in reality this is archaeofakery.
It is, writes Rowan, a 'decidedly and unabashedly Christian version of the Holy Land; Judaism is virtually nonexistent except in its role as the essential roots of Christianity, and as a purchasing opportunity. Islam, of course, is absent.' Little wonder that visits to the real thing are potentially dangerous.
This is an academic book by, and mostly for, academics, despite the publisher's earnest hope that it will appeal to archaeologists, applied anthropologists, economic development specialists and others. It is filled with brackets, pages of references and its fair share of tosh - 'tourists are alienated people seeking authenticity as a form of fulfilment' - and impenetrable sentences.
But at its heart lies an interesting debate for archaeologists and a wider audience. As Traci Ardren notes at the end of a short and thoughtful essay on the use and abuse of indigenous culture in advertising, 'academic archaeologists' must shoulder some of the blame for research that excludes indigenous people and benefits the state.
I suspect she is optimistic in believing that partnership with local people will circumvent the multinational forces that threaten to control archaeological knowledge.
We all shape our own personal histories, choosing what parts we want to tell and what we wish to forget. Each of us contributes, usually in a very tiny way, to the history of our communities, our countries and the world.
Perhaps, above all, the lesson of Marketing Heritage is a timely one - at the end of day what counts most is not authenticity, but truth.
Timothy Mason is an arts and heritage consultant
'Evans is repainting and reconstructing Knosós in a gaudy style of bad taste that gives it something of the look of his hideous house at Boar's Hill'; or the replica Thracian tomb at Kazanlâk in Bulgaria's Valley of the Roses.
The step from here to the Holy Land Experience in Orlando (of which more later), and thence to Disneyland, is not such a large one. It is not surprising that the tourism industry has seen the products of archaeology as valuable components of the marketing mix - just look at any holiday brochure for Greece or Turkey.
There is a more sinister side. Governments have seen potential in the symbolism of archaeological finds to argue a case for, or to act against, perceived threats to nationalism or national identity: think of King Otto of Greece's glorification of a perfect Athens, Hitler's crude attempts to prove the Germanic origins of Poland, or the destruction of sacred sites at Bamiyan, Afghanistan.
Marketing Heritage suggests a rather slow awakening to this 'global phenomenon… the way in which archaeology and heritage are becoming commodities in the marketplace'. Ask it quietly for fear of waking the sleeping, but wasn't that what the Grand Tour was all about - or those American sojourns in Europe that feature in the novels of Henry James and Edith Wharton?
In a series of essays, 19, mostly American, academics cover the waterfront - from an analysis of Unesco conventions to a study of attempts to give colonial Williamsburg a more realistic image by introducing the concept of dirt.
In such a large collection of essays, there is inevitably something of the curate's egg about this book. Some feel dated: a review of the shops at Avebury and Stonehenge, based partly on a visit to the latter in 1994, and an assessment of the history of the Parthenon marbles that fails to refer to Neil MacGregor's case for the world museum.
Some are wonderfully quirky: Erin Addison's work on access to Islamic heritage in Jordan has an important point to make (Islamic heritage appears to be 'deliberately obscured' from tourists), but it reaches its conclusions in part by a meticulous assessment of road signs, which is worthy of the most dedicated anorak.
Sweeping the world for its sources, Marketing Heritage contains some rich finds. It was André Malraux, that doyen of French culture in postwar France, who was the first systematic large-scale looter of Angkor Wat, taking almost a ton of stones from the temple in 1924. In the 19th century, it was possible to hire hammers in Salisbury to chip pieces off Stonehenge.
And there's the Holy Land Experience in Florida, 'an alternative to foreign travel' for 'those many Americans who find the distance, cost or potential danger of a visit to the Holy Land prohibitive, and increasingly dangerous'.
Because the distance and cost were prohibitive, I made a virtual visit to the Holy Land Experience website. It's a place with 'a singular purpose… to provide answers to life's most important questions: "Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going? What is life really all about?"' If only the real archaeology could guarantee to do the same.
According to Yorke Rowan, '[The Holy Land Experience] offers an
example of what elsewhere Richard Prentice has described as "constructed authenticity"', but in reality this is archaeofakery.
It is, writes Rowan, a 'decidedly and unabashedly Christian version of the Holy Land; Judaism is virtually nonexistent except in its role as the essential roots of Christianity, and as a purchasing opportunity. Islam, of course, is absent.' Little wonder that visits to the real thing are potentially dangerous.
This is an academic book by, and mostly for, academics, despite the publisher's earnest hope that it will appeal to archaeologists, applied anthropologists, economic development specialists and others. It is filled with brackets, pages of references and its fair share of tosh - 'tourists are alienated people seeking authenticity as a form of fulfilment' - and impenetrable sentences.
But at its heart lies an interesting debate for archaeologists and a wider audience. As Traci Ardren notes at the end of a short and thoughtful essay on the use and abuse of indigenous culture in advertising, 'academic archaeologists' must shoulder some of the blame for research that excludes indigenous people and benefits the state.
I suspect she is optimistic in believing that partnership with local people will circumvent the multinational forces that threaten to control archaeological knowledge.
We all shape our own personal histories, choosing what parts we want to tell and what we wish to forget. Each of us contributes, usually in a very tiny way, to the history of our communities, our countries and the world.
Perhaps, above all, the lesson of Marketing Heritage is a timely one - at the end of day what counts most is not authenticity, but truth.
Timothy Mason is an arts and heritage consultant
